Northern Lights Northern Lights 20092009

University of WUniversity of WisconsinisconsinMarinette Marinette

Arts JournalArts Journal

52

Volume 29 Spring 2009

University of Wisconsin Marinette

750 W. Bay Shore St.Marinette, Wisconsin 54143

© 2009This publication is printed on recycled paper.

Winter Wreath by Meg Allen

Northern Lights2009 Arts Journal

University of Wisconsin Marinette

[AN EXCERPT FROM HABIB, THE PROPHET]FATIMA, OF THE EASTby Abayomi Animashaun

One night, after walking the entire town blessing every house. We sat along the river.

After bread and water, I sat by his side and said: Habib teach us how to talk without fear to god, your father. And he:

Say this:

As you are in my image, lord I am in yours: For in the end, we are equal. The same spirit that echoed and moved through the void, proclaiming ‘let there be light’...

Echoes and moves through me giving light. And, when yours grows dim with doubt when your angels fail to reach these villagers. Recall, then, this light and lean your tired spirit on my heart.

Amen.

Contributors

Acknowledgments

We were not able to publish all the entries submitted this year, but we wish tothank everyone who contributed. Thanks also to Printers Plus for their printingassistance.

Editorial Committee: Amy Reddinger chair, Abayo Animashaun, MaureenFrawley, Colleen Johnston, James LaMalfa, Jennifer Flatt and Jane Oitzinger.

Thanks also are due to Connie Scofield, John Kuhlmann and Judith Johnson fortheir assistance in collecting art submissions.

Northern Lights is funded by the UW-Marinette Student Senate.

2 51

Darwin Adams

Meg Allen

Abayomi Animashaun

Kathryn Claycomb

Matt Demeuse

Tim Demeuse

Michelle Duffrin

Kassie Evans

Nellie Fertato

Amanda Gretzinger

Adria Kaufman

William Klassen

Heather Knope

James LaMalfa

Sam Larsh

Katie Olson

Michael Paquet

Thalia Radey

T.J. Radey

Gabriella Sheldon

Marilyn Stark

Stephanie Thompson

Ashley Wehrli

Cover art: WOLF by Amanda Gretzinger

CONTEMPLATINGby Adria Kaufman

Sometimes I move forwardSometimes I bend backTo see the light of knowingBefore it fades to black

It comes and goes, I watch itEver lapping at the shoreOf insanity’s reasonBefore I become no more

Can you climb the mountain topDoes the rain reach you thereIs it just another place to goWith yet another stair

If the answer lies before meWill I know it by its nameCan it come in many formsWill I see it just the same

If yesterday’s tomorrow Is nothing but todayIs there still chance in seekingA path to find our way

Am I seeking cosmosWithin an atom’s spinIs there something greaterFrom without looking in

As time stretches out before meMy questions pave the pathAnd the journey is not the knowingBut the need to always ask

50 3

THE THINGS THAT SPEAK OF SUNby Adria Kaufman

The first days of spring

reminiscent of

a soggier sort of autumn

The trees

still crisp and bare

rattle brittle breeze

The grass does crunch

beneath the puddle

soaking muddle

But there is a smell

that carries a promise

much different

from that of the fall

Now a promise

of the green

left unseen

‘til the soak

begins to seep

to feed the things

that speak of sun

that nourish and

reach forward

upward

I smell you

Chlorophyll

I smell you

spring

The melting of the gleaming snow o so white.

Drip, drip, drip.

The ice is melting just like the snow.

Drip, drip, drip.

The green grass will soon be here once again.

Drip, drip, drip.

The water in the rivers is full with the melting snow.

Drip, drip, drip.

I am happy and sad to see it go.

Drip, drip, drip.

But I know this is not the end for it will be back again.

Drip, drip, drip.

WINTER’S ENDby Matt Demeuse

The sound of quiet, trickling water graces my ears,

a sign that snow is being conquered.

Cheerful birds sing their yearning songs outside my window,

hoping their soft melodies will soon usher in

a wishful spring.

All the signs show, even the robin has returned,

that spring should be here, except for the snow.

It sounds like spring, but my eyes don’t see it.

So I close them, shutting out my doubt that spring will ever come,

and picture the nature that matches the sounds.

WISHFUL SPRINGby Stephanie Thompson

4 49

North Country traveler,

April is the great deceiver.

She seduces you with hard won sunshine

And earlier light

But sucker punches are always ready.

So remember,

Winter is king in our north country,

Only allows us summer on sufferance.

We are flim-flammed by a robin,

Listening for a doomed worm,

Flights of cranes flying north

Who should know better.

APRILby James LaMalfa

THE LONG, LONELY RACEModeled After: Consolations After an Affair by James Tate

by Thalia Radey

People pass and never speak

Too involved with their own details

Work, family, home,

The weekend plans they have to keep,

Lives moving too fast to care.

Flowers bloom, full and bright,

They know not the worry

Of days speeding by.

They only try to catch the eye

Of someone passing by

Long enough to share their beauty,

And put a smile on the face

Of one complete stranger

Walking so quickly

Just trying to survive

This long, lonely race.

548

AFFIRMING SPRING, THE INTERIOR AND EXTERIORby Marilyn Stark

Affirming Spring, the Interiorand Exterior, for Myself and a FriendWho Says She Does Not Own LilacsThis Year and I Beg Her to Search

the free fields. First sightings,April 18, and they call, “Pluck me,I’m wild-scented and free.” Do we

ever own lilacs or spring or May?Were you ever May Queen in grade school?I, April’s inebriate, sit here reading

Sexton’s “Young” and other poemsimmoderate as this season’sperfumed blossoms. Fill your

thinking rooms with their surroundingaroma. Steal them from yardsand secret places, these always

interpreters of beginningsand endings. Who did you first kiss?Where were you? In our museum

outing in sixth grade, Betty LouBedalov warned, “Stay away from darkcorridors. The boys are cornering

all the girls. They caught Mary AliceMcGilligut, but she turned hereyelids inside out

and they ran.” This is our reliquaryof spring: dinosaur bones, Sister MaryVirginelle slugging it out with the

braggadocios, and the dark mysteryof BOYS. This is a holy day. Let thesebrief trumpets find you every spring

in the sacred, scented halls of memory.

We all got off. Some headed west, but everyone else (except for a few who got

in cars or a horse drawn buggy) walked along the shore on a sidewalk separated

from the Sea by a wall and huge stones.

Since the shoreline curved, I couldn’t see where we were headed or how

long we would have to walk. We walked for about 30 minutes. I took some great

pictures of old buildings and ships on the land and cranes on the opposite shore.

Literally hundreds of cranes lined the shore. I even got pictures of a tugboat and

barge. The little boys climbed up on the wall and ran along it. The parents kept

pushing their babies in their carriages and strollers, specially designed for cold

weather and cobblestone roads and sidewalks. Finally I came to a place that

said “the end,” I think in French. (Or maybe it was “dolphins” in Lithuanian.) It

had a huge dolphin aquarium plus a small restaurant and toilets. Since I wasn’t

hungry or thirsty, I just enjoyed the antics of the dolphins for a while. Then I

thought: I have an hour walk back to the dorm, so I think I’ll use the toilet.

Imagine my surprise at finding squat toilets, the first I’d seen in Lithuania.

I saw the entrance to the Lithuanian Sea Museum, but I thought I’d had

enough adventure for the day, so I headed back to the dock. Some of the same

people whom I’d walked with heading north also were headed back south. They

were hurrying, so I stepped up my pace too and then ran off and on as I saw the

ferry heading to the dock. The man started raising the gangplank before I got

there, but running I waved my hands and when he saw me, he lowered it and I

boarded the ferry. In minutes we were all back on land. I planned to return when

the temperature was above freezing, maybe late April. I was thinking that if I had

headed west, I might have seen the sandy shore. (And I was right.)

As I headed north, I decided to stop at IKI, the chain grocery store, to get

fruit for two potlucks I was going to have, so I did. In my eagerness to get my

money out, I dumped a bunch of coins on the floor and the counter. Since the

smallest paper bill is 10L, all the rest is in coins and I had a lot. In Lithuanian I

told the clerk I spoke only a little Lithuanian. She was very patient with me and

had a cute twinkle in her eyes. She actually put my groceries in my bag for me

as I got my money back in my wallet. The person waiting next in line also helped

me retrieve my money. Then in English she said good-by and we both smiled.

It was a little after 16:00 when I opened my dorm room door. The afternoon

had given me an adventure. Now those essays sitting on the table seemed

doable, so do them I did.

6 47

MEMORY LANEby Ashley Wehrli

Yesterday after my usual Saturday morning housework (two loads of laundry,

sweeping, mopping, doing dishes), I started to read essays that I had to correct

as part of my responsibilities at LCC International University, situated on the

coast of Lithuania in Klaipeda. Then I had a terribly strong desire for adventure.

(Those of us who correct essays are prone to such thoughts.) I had lunch as I

contemplated what to do. I had to do it alone since I hadn’t made plans with any-

one and didn’t have a phone. At 13:00 I dressed, complete with shopping bag

and camera, and left the dorm. It was partly sunny so I wore my sunglasses.

The temperature was below freezing and fresh snow from the night before

whitened the ground. I headed toward Old Town or south.

Usually I wear my hair under my coat, but while working I had put it in a

pony tail to the side, so I just took the tie out and had it hang out on my left side.

As I was walking, a delightful woman close to my age caught up with me and in

broken English, fluent German and Lithuanian, told me she at first thought my

hair was a shawl and then stopped me to say how beautiful it was. We ended up

chatting and laughing, communicating in German, Lithuanian, and English. She

teaches German to young children, I think, at an orphanage. I found out that her

mother died at age 83 in 2005, that she has two children and four grandchildren

all living in Klaipeda, but no man. I thought about my man, who had told me not

to cut my hair before I left the states. This part of my adventure was his doing.

Considering our language difficulties, it was amazing how much we could say

and understand. We even found out that we both had March birthdays and that

she was into astrology, but I was not. We parted after she went her way to buy

black bread and butter, and I continued my journey without Antionetta.

Since the sun kept breaking through, I thought it would be nice to see the

beach. On sunny days the beach is often enjoyed even on freezing days in

February. Someone had mentioned turning west at the bridge crossing the Dane

River just north of Old Town, so that is what I did. I walked, all the time getting

closer to the huge cranes that lined the shore. I was thinking that the prospects

of seeing a crane close up were increasing but not of seeing any beaches. I was

right. Then I saw several families with young children and strollers heading in the

same direction. At a place called Kasa, they got tickets and boarded a ferry,

which said Lithuania Sea Museum in English and in Lithuanian. I decided to fol-

low them and for 2L got a ticket also and walked the gangplank. About 15 min-

utes later, the ferry headed west across the water to the Curonian Spit, formed

from ancient sand dunes and separating most of Klaipeda from the Baltic Sea.

THREE HOURS IN KLAIPEDAby Gabriella Sheldon

46 7

When I decided to become a student pilot it quickly became apparent that paying

for an instructor and renting an airplane was adding up to be pretty expensive.

Two of my buddies from chapter 535 of the Experimental Aircraft Association

and I decided to form a three-person club, find an aircraft to restore and save

lots of money. Like any first time home builder, I seriously underestimated the

time and effort required to restore an aircraft, but that is another story.

We heard about a damaged Piper Tri-Pacer for sale near Menominee,

called the owner, and agreed to drive out to his farm and look at it. A wrecked

airplane is laughingly called a “Basket Case,” meaning you’re buying it in pieces.

Tom the owner and the three of us chatted about the history of the airplane. It

had been damaged by a student pilot who landed long on runway 180 at

Manistique, Michigan’s small airport, and rolled over highway 2 into the drainage

ditch. The airplane turned turtle slowly so the student was not injured, but a per-

fectly usable aircraft had been turned into a wreck in thirty seconds.

My partner had brought along his young beagle, figuring a farm was a good

place to give the pup a run. Tom showed us a photo of the airplane, upside

down, in front of the Sleepy Eye Motel, which advertised itself with a sign sport-

ing a drowsy bear cub rubbing his eyes.

“Okay Tom,” I said, “Let’s see your airplane. Where do you keep it?”

“In the barn,” he replied, pointing to a pole building on his property. The

three of us and the beagle walked over to the building. Tom opened the door

revealing a hodge-podge of paraphernalia he had collected: old movie projec-

tors, tools and a wingless airplane. I stared at the cabin which was missing its

doors. There seemed to be a dark furry object on the instrument panel, maybe a

throw rug.

“Tom,” I asked, “What’s that on the instrument panel?”

“Oh that,” he replied, “That’s my pet raccoon. She’s pregnant and sleeps

there when she isn’t running around the yard.”

“Is it safe to go in the barn?” I asked hesitantly.

As we stood in the doorway, the young beagle nosed ahead of us, curious

about the brown, furry object, now awake and looking at us.

“You’ll be okay,” Tom replied, “But she doesn’t like dogs.”

By now the beagle had moved into the barn. The pregnant raccoon fixed her

gaze on the dog. I turned to my buddy to warn him but the raccoon had already

AIRBORNby James LaMalfa

Poised now I stand over the now prostrate Retail;

My sword-tip ready to deliver the

Killer strike.

But how?

How to kill such a powerful enemy?

Death to Retail!

Retail’s demise shall come first by the

Disposal of federal tender;

We must abandon money.

Return to the barter system.

Death to Retail!

This will weaken the Selling-Giant significantly, and allow

For the knock-out blow.

The final strike will be delivered by

Sarcastic poets of genius that demean Retail.

This will uproot Retail, and its hold on

Modern America,

Further freeing us from

Retail’s sinister grasp.

Death to Retail!

Yes, the moment has come,

Retail is dead.

8 45

sized up the situation and decided to act. With an unearthly screech, she literally

launched herself, going airborne. Instinctively the three of us bolted for the door,

slamming it behind us. All hell broke loose in the barn. We could hear the sound

of a terrific battle. Growls, shrieks, yelps of pain reached our ears. Tom opened

the door a crack and the beagle crawled out, clearly a beaten male. His nose

bore scratches and one ear looked slightly shorter than before. Tom quickly shut

the door.

“Well Tom,” I said, “maybe we’ll come back some other time.”

Tom wanted to sell the airplane and get it out of his barn, so he decided on

diplomacy.

“Yeah, look guys, I was asking two thousand but I’ll give you a break.

Fifteen hundred bucks and take everything.”

My partners and I agreed on the price, so I said to Tom, “Okay, it’s a deal,

but you can keep the raccoon!”

The raccoon had unwittingly helped us by raising a ruckus. Her owner had

to lower his price.

Part II

A Hero?

Not like we thought.

A Savior?

Not for us.

A Master?

No, but more of a master to us and a slave to the Master.

Who? Who?

Retail,

The Horse of Capitalism.

It is by Retail that Capitalism first reared its ugly head.

Retail;

The murderer of concern and now the developer

And Strong Arm

Of Capitalism.

How shall we escape?

How to free ourselves as prostrate Slaves to Capitalism and Retail?

How?

By Retail, Capitalism thrives;

By Capitalism, Retail thrives.

The answer?

Retail.

Retail is the answer.

Retail must die.

Part III

Woe is me!

For today we witness the loss of

One who is loved by many,

But detested by most.

Who?

Whose time has come?

Retail.

Retail’s time is up;

Retail’s life thread is set to be cut;

It is time for Retail to die.10:16 AMby Ashley Wehrli

44 9

Standing in the ankle high green grass is a golden, dappled palomino mare with

an almost perfect white mane and tail. The sun shines down on her golden coat

making it shimmer and glow as if it was spun from fourteen karat gold. Her

small, dark honey muzzle plucks mouthfuls of grass from the lush ground and

pulls it into her mouth. She sighs contentedly, chewing away at the grass

around her. She swishes her snowy tail at a random dark fly on her sunny flank.

Playfully kicking up his delicate heels, her light cream-colored foal frolics around

her. Just a few weeks old, the colt’s coat color is already starting to come out

from under his baby fuzz. The bright sun shines over the foal’s cream coat mak-

ing the honey highlights shimmer. The colt tosses his delicate little head in

delight, and hops up to his mother to nurse hungrily. The mare turns her head to

briefly look at her lively foal as he flicks his tail back and forth happily. She

grunts contentedly and returns to graze on the lush grass.

THE PASTUREby Katie Olson

A simple “hello”

A casual “can I help you?”

And a crown, “how are you today?”

How many of us truly care how a perfect stranger

Is “doing?”

Retail. Retail cares;

Retail knows,

Because Retail asks these questions everyday.

Go to any—any Retail store—and someone—anyone—Guaranteed—

Will ask “how are you?”

Retail—the murderer of true concern.

Retail’s cold-blooded slaughter of sincerity began

As harmless, casual banter between strangers,

But its overuse by Retail heads to destruction.

Retail.

There was a time when strangers cared for

Strangers, but Retail killed it.

“Can I help you?” the beginning of the end.

“How are you today?” the turn from bad to worse.

“Have a nice day,” Retail’s cold words, which seal our fate.

“You too,” the customer’s careless reply deals the death blow.

Are we then bound?

Bound to these relentless repetitious banters?

Is there a cure?

Retail.

Retail is our cure;

Retail is our Savior;

We must turn to Retail in our time of need!

From whence it came, there it should return.

Retail. Retail can save us.

“Can I help you?”

“No? Why then, have a nice day!”

RETAIL, PARTS I - IIIby Michael Paquet

ALWAYS ON THE WATCHBy Michelle Duffrin

10 43

With hundreds, thousands to kill, mass murder strategies had to be

improved. Lining up prisoners between two barracks and then shooting them

was one way. Various lethal injections were given. Hanging also was used, but

these methods were slow. At Auschwitz II gas chambers and crematoriums were

built by slave labor to accommodate the unwanted new arrivals. An estimated

1.5 million people faced eternity at Auschwitz I and II before WWII ended.

The first gas chambers were an experiment. The subjects took two days to

die, so the dosage was changed until everyone in the chamber could be dead in

20 minutes. Prisoners were told that they would get a shower and new clothes,

so with hopes of relocation as promised, they undressed and stood in the show-

ers. They didn’t know that the shower-heads had never been connected to

water. In minutes they were all dead; then other prisoners had to haul them out

so that they could be burned in a crematorium. Of course, these witnesses were

guaranteed a short life. They knew too much.

As I stand in a gas chamber, I feel cold and damp. I would like to cry

because I am standing where martyrs stood. My eyes are dry, but my heart is

bleeding.

After death, the gold and silver from teeth were extracted by slave labor.

The Third Reich used everything for its benefit, including gold fillings, hair, and

all belongings confiscated from the prisoners. Then the bodies were cremated.

At the peak, 12,000 bodies a day had to be burned. Since that number exceeded

the capacity of the crematoriums, some were cremated in outdoor facilities. No

records were ever kept of the 75-80% who went straight to the gas chambers,

but I saw huge piles of their suitcases, eyeglasses, prostheses, and hairbrushes.

Their ashes were scattered on fields for fertilizer and thrown in ponds. The whole

surrounding area is a cemetery for innocent citizens from 22 countries.

I move numbly with the tour group. A man comes up beside me and starts a

conversation. I do not want to talk. I say as much and he walks off. I think he is

with a woman. I want to keep silent as if my silence here somehow honors the

dead. My words to him are the only words I speak until I climb back into the bus

and head to Krakow.

Auschwitz now is a museum—a place of remembrance where people like

me somberly walk the paths of prisoners who suffered and died here. I have

come face to face with civilized man’s attempt to redefine civilization. I am

ashamed as I search my own heart. Even though I am sickened by the atrocities

of the concentration camps, I don’t want to forget. I don’t want history to repeat

itself. I don’t want my hair to be used for felt.

She sat under the moonlit sky

Listening to the trees

As they silhouetted the land

And whispered in the breeze

Her mind wandered in deep thought

Reflecting on the day

When a somber cry filled the air

And pushed her memories away

A lone wolf emerged from the forest

With fur as black as night

She stared in shock and wonder

Until its eyes met hers in the twilight

It gazed into her soul

As deep as it could see

And left her frail body shaken

On a hilltop, beside a tree

She heard a loud snap and dodged a branch

Then returned her eyes below

The wolf disappeared, as if it never was there

Leaving the girl alone in the tree’s shadow

RETURN TO A COLD NIGHT’S REMEMBRANCEBy Heather Knope

42 11

Two tons. My eyes survey the pile encased in glass. I can believe it is two tons,

two tons of human hair that had been destined to be baled and purchased by a

German business to be made into felt. But now it is a ghastly reminder of a peri-

od of infamy, for I am at Auschwitz I in Poland.

I really didn’t want to come here. I wanted to stay in the beautiful city of

Krakow, the birthplace of my paternal grandmother. I preferred visiting castles

and churches and museums containing art and beauty, glorifying God and dis-

playing the creativity of the human soul, but I knew that to be fair to the annals of

time, I also had to see Auschwitz, where the depravity of the human soul also

brought creativity, creativity gone amuck.

And so here I am. On the outside, the camp looks innocuous. The Polish

military barracks of Oswiecim during 1940-1945 were converted into a prison

camp. One-story, red brick barracks were converted into two stories, thanks to

free labor by the prisoners. Everything looks neat and orderly, photographic sim-

plicity and neatness that belies what went on inside the buildings and on the

grounds. The barbed wire fence gives a clue that no one wanted to stay here.

That it was electrified also says this place was no haven.

Few escaped, but when they did, those left behind paid for it with their lives,

a life for a life. At first the prison camps were just cruel places of slave labor and

medical experimentation, resulting in many deaths. In 1941, a new development

changed the prison camps into death camps. So many groups of people were

substandard: Jews, gypsies, Jehovah Witnesses, and homosexuals; anyone

who protested Nazi rule or helped the substandard humans had to be eliminated

also.

The slave labor market was exceeding demand, so new strategies were

needed. One strategy was to feed the prisoners 1300 calories a day, work them

10-11 hours a day, provide them no heat and dress them in thin clothing so that

many died within the first months of their imprisonment. Still train loads of men,

women, and children kept coming as the Third Reich grew.

I hear the stories and see the camp. Then we get on the bus again and trav-

el to Auschwitz II-Birkenau. Here 100s of wooden stables converted into housing

still stand silently. The sanitation building has rows of holes for the communal

toilets used only twice a day.

The 75-25 (or 80-20) rule came into effect: If you were healthy and over 14

and not pregnant, you went to the right and to slave labor. Only 20-25% made

that cut. Twins were saved for medical experimentation, a fate worse than quick

death. All the rest were killed.

TWO TONSby Gabriella Sheldon

On a dark night with an immeasurable number of stars out, or maybe they were

just airplanes, we quickly dash through our backyard to the trampoline because

our bare feet are cold from the grass that is wet with dew. We hear a ribbit noise

as we scurry past the swimming pool. Suddenly, someone lets out a little squeal

because she feels a frog brush against her ankle, as the amphibian hops around

on the tarp near the swimming pool. As a lightning bug flies past my face, I wish

that I had a jar to try to catch it in. Swiftly, we toss our sleeping bags, pillows,

and blankets on top, then immediately jump on. We first lay down a few old blan-

kets since the trampoline is damp with dew, but save the soft and warm ones for

ourselves. The air is very brisk and damp, with a faint smell of wood burning,

even though the bonfire has been put out. Immediately, my sister Kim, my

cousin Hydeia, and I snuggle inside our sleeping bags and pile many blankets

on top of us. As the wind blows a little, we hide our faces under a soft blanket to

shield ourselves from it. We tell each other stories from the past and talk about

how cool it would be if we saw a shooting star. We talk about how hungry we

are, even though not too long ago we had a countless number of s’mores while

sitting around the bonfire. Awhile later, we peek out from under the blankets and

suddenly see a shooting star. We all look with excitement, close our eyes, and

quickly make a wish. We swat at the mosquitoes that are swarming around our

faces. We then go back under the covers since there are so many bugs and we

are cold, even though it is a summer’s night. We giggle about how strange to

see a shooting star after we were just saying how awesome it would be to see a

shooting star. We attempt to get one another to tell the wish they made, but of

course, none of us will tell because we all want our wish to come true. We talk

about staying awake until the sun comes up, but we soon drift off to sleep

because we are young and tired from a long day of play. The sound of the crick-

ets is like a soft lullaby. We sleep relaxed and at ease because the trampoline is

so comfortable, and then we wake up squished in the center.

A TRAMPOLINE’S SLEEPby Kassie Evans

12 41

Would she be more upset about the beers or about being so late? Well, the

weather had decided for him, and she ought to understand that.

His mind wandered back to the sound he’d heard of the car door closing.

Had it been his own car door closing? He didn’t think he’d had anyone with him

when he’d left the bar, but he couldn’t be sure. His own door was locked—he

always checked that as he turned the ignition key—but were the passenger

doors locked? As a matter of routine, he always laid his coat in the back seat

behind him, and so he turned around to check that door’s lock. It was unlocked.

His coat was there, as it should have been. But there was something white lying

on his coat. He didn’t remember bringing anything out of the bar, but he didn’t

remember coming out of the bar, either. He didn’t carry a handkerchief, relying

instead on a pocket pack of tissues. He had a tissue box in the car, too, for when

he visited his girlfriend and her cat. But some females carried handkerchiefs.

Had there been a girl with him? He didn’t remember any girls hanging around

him. He’d noticed one of the guys in the bar had a handkerchief. Kept it in his

back pocket. Who’d want to sit on a wet slimy handkerchief, he thought? He

wondered if this one was wet and slimy, but reached over the seat to pick it up

anyway. It was wet, but with rain, and it was wrapped around something. He

unwrapped it (stupidly, he thought later) and a finger fell out onto his lap. At first

he thought it was one of those rubber fingers from the party-gag shop and some-

one was playing a trick on him, but then he realized it was real. He passed out.

SAFE AND SOUNDBy Michelle Duffrin

40 13

THE ASTRONOMER REVISITEDby Gabriella Sheldon

I THINK OF YOUby Gabriella Sheldon

They walked almost touching,

Their gazes skyward

full moon captivated her.

She wanted to grasp his hand,

Feel him pull her against himself,

Touch his lips with hers.

She trembled in the cool night air.

He glanced her way.

He caught the sparkle of moonlight

In her eyes.

He cleared his throat.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“The moon is so bright.

You really can’t see much tonight.

Let’s go inside.”

She said, “Ah, you’re right.

Let’s go inside.”

They hurried in,

Her perfume trailing behind.

They never saw the moon set.

I think of you when my nose runs

While eating stew or soup or cakes.

It really doesn’t matter what I’m eating.

Just a few bites is all it takes

To remind me of you and your smile

And then, of course, your runny nose.

You will reach in your pocket and then unfold

A handkerchief to wipe your nose.

Yes, I think of you when my nose runs,

But I must confess while it is true,

It isn’t the only time that I do.

CHAPTER TWO FROM “WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN” A TALE IN MANY VOICES

by Kathryn Claycomb

He woke groggily, to the sound of a car door closing. Was it his car door, or

someone else’s car door? The wind was blowing mightily and the rain was start-

ing to come, but there were no other sounds—no footsteps, no voices, no dogs

barking. It was pitch black but he could occasionally see the shiny-wet tree

trunks as the occasional car’s headlights swept around the corner at the far end

of this out-of-the-way park he’d driven to when he left the bar.

It had been a difficult day. All his clients had been cranky, for no reason that

he could help, and at the end of the day he’d decided to go watch the game and

have a few beers before heading to his girlfriend’s apartment to face her cranki-

ness. And to suffer through the endless sneezing. She had a cat. She knew he

was allergic to cats. She knew he couldn’t live with a cat. Yet she kept that cat

around and loved it more than she loved him, he had groused to himself. And

then she expected him to consider thoughts of matrimony and parenthood. She

hadn’t really said anything, of course, but he could tell. Anyway, he wasn’t going

to show up for dinner totally drunk, which is why he’d parked a quarter mile away

here by the river. But what about that car-door sound? He pulled himself vertical,

and looked around. No other cars—not any more, at least. No one walking.

They would have been insane to be out walking in this weather—except dog

owners. But they were insane anyway. Who’d want a dog in a city, always hav-

ing to take the elevator down and up sixteen times a day? And no grass any-

where to speak of, at least not enough to serve the needs of the dozens of dogs

in the neighborhood. So this park got a lot of traffic from the dog owners, but not

tonight. Tonight it would be down the elevator, do the dog business at the near-

est curb, and back up. Neither dog nor owner would want to be out in this storm,

for now the rain was coming down heavily and there was an ominously pressing

feeling in the park. Branches were cracking and falling, the rain was coming

down so hard that he couldn’t see to the end of the park, and instead of car

headlights illuminating the tree trunks, it was now lightning doing the job. He

couldn’t do any driving right now because it would be unsafe with the lack of visi-

bility. That was a good excuse, he thought, and it could buy him some time. His

girlfriend ought to understand that. He could sober up some more. It had been

quite a convivial group watching the game, and he’d had more than a few beers.

3914

The silence was unsettling. Moonlight filtered through the alley, casting shafts of

pale light upon the ground, on which a few rats sat to nibble on some crumbs. A

lone figure began to glide through the abandoned alley, her heart beating furi-

ously against her chest. It was past midnight…her parents would be worried

sick. The dance had dragged on longer than she would have thought. It had

been so wonderful though, swaying beautifully to the gentle music that flowed

through the room, donned in her crimson dress.

But the night was now over, and feelings of anxiety spread within her. Being

in an urban area, she knew of the dangers posed by walking home alone at

night. Her date asked to walk her home, but she waved him off. His parents were

more severe compared to her own. If he was any later, it would cause more

harm than good.

The teen girl was unaware of two dark eyes gazing through the darkness on

the building above. His eyes stared at her throat, white and bare, his main target.

The scent of human blood lingered in the air, tantalizing and sweet. He licked his

lips; soon he would have his meal.

Claw-like fingers grasped tightly to the ledge of the building. His parents told

him he must be silent, stealthy. A gentle rustling sound behind him caused his

eyes to narrow in frustration. His wings…they were such a nuisance. How could

he be stealthy when he had large, gangly bat wings connected to his shoulder

blades? He sighed, a stream of cool air slipping between his fangs. He must be

patient. She was constantly looking behind her, obviously paranoid. When she

was less alert, then he would strike.

Her eyes scanned the darkness. Something was out there, she could feel it.

The question was, where was it? Her eyes lifted to the moon, a thin, gentle cres-

cent in the night sky. Her pace quickened, she had to get home. Anxiety was

getting the best of her.

The vampire watched as she turned her head and began to run. Now was

his chance. Unleashing an inhuman cry, he pounced forward, great wings

spreading to catch the air. With a mighty flap he dove down, hands reaching out

for her shoulders. Unfortunately, his timing was off, and all he met was hard

pavement as he smacked face-first into the ground, grunting in pain as he did

so.

ON WINGS OF A BAT by Amanda Gretzinger

LET ME OUT! LET ME GO! You hopelessly cry

You can feel an aching feeling inside

You try to break free but your hands are tied

All of your best efforts are denied.

You can smell the smell of your flesh being fried

Whoever said death is quick must’ve lied

You try to scream but your voice has died…

Deliberately immediate, you open your eyes

Just in time to save your ass.

This is why you shouldn’t sleep during class.

UNTITLEDBy Ashley Wehrli

38 15

The girl had jumped at the cry, and whipped around to see a strange,

winged figure strike the ground. He shook his head, long black hair falling

around his pale face. He looked young, much younger than her. If she would

have guessed, he seemed to be around twelve…What kept her transfixed,

though, was the great bat-like wings caped upon his back. They rooted her to

the spot in fear, even as the boy stood up and rubbed his forehead, where an

angry red welt was beginning to form.

“Stupid wings…” He grumbled. When he noticed the girl staring at him, the

vampire growled, “What are YOU looking at?! Go! Shoo! Be grateful that I don’t

try again to get my meal!”

She stared incredulously at this strange creature. He didn’t seem threaten-

ing by any means, “Wh…what are you?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly

from the fear she felt at the attempted attack. The boy growled and turned away,

wings tightly pressing against his back, “I’m a vampire, smart person.” Sarcasm

was written plainly in his voice, “Learn to pick up a horror story one of these

days.”

Indignation was getting to him. He spread his wings, realization of his failed

attempt at a meal truly setting in now, “If I were you, I’d avoid going out at night

alone. It is at night that I search for sustenance.” With that said, he spread his

wings and gave a running start before leaping into the air. The great leathery

membranes pulled taut and he soared into the sky, flying towards the moon.

The girl watched him fly with wonder and bewilderment. Part of her won-

dered if it was a dream, if she had imagined the entire thing. With a sigh meant

to dispel her confusion and exhaustion, she turned around and began to trudge

back home, wondering if anyone would believe her story about the young vam-

pire who failed to get his meal.

IT’S A DANGEROUS THINGby Sam Larsh

Setting: Middle of a jungle.

How did you get here? Currently forgetting.

Running. Being chased.

Storming through the jungle

Like you’re winning a race.

Except if you lose

Something is going to eat your face.

Your life is in danger,

Rely on survival instinct

Just continue moving

There is no time to think.

Violent screeches can be heard from behind.

Scramble on, push defeatist thoughts from your mind.

You hear a dull “THUD, THUD, THUD.”

Your heart you assume

An iambic countdown clock of certain doom.

You must keep moving, you must keep running

Use all of your resources, the terrain and your cunning.

You can do this! You do not want to be beaten.

Even more so you don’t want to be eaten.

“THUD, THUD, THUD”

Like the beating of drums

A monotone drawl lightly hums

In the background, but life is on the forefront right now

As through the vines and tropical plants you plough.

You hear them now, they are gaining

Your heart is pounding, your strength is waning.

They pounce! You dive.

You are caught… How will you survive?

Flash Forward with no warning

The screams around you are storming.

Covered in hundreds of pygmy size cuts

These creatures are about to feast on your guts.

16 37

Two of them;

One an elderly man,

The other an elderly woman.

Both are gray—

The man mostly bald now—

And both portlier than their youth

(When they met).

A shining ring adorns the woman’s

Left ring finger,

And none on his;

But a clear mark left by his

Wedding ring

On his Age Enlarged fingers.

She in a wheelchair,

And he gently pushing her along.

They stop, and she fumbles with her purse—

Barely able to move two of her ten fingers—

Struggling to pay the due bill to the waiting cashier.

When she obviously cannot get into the wallet,

And unable to call for help,

The man patiently takes the purse

From her shaking hands

And gives the cashier what is due.

As the man gazes lovingly on his wife,

He steals a glance at the

Cashier, who watches in wonder.

With a wink to the man behind the counter, the old man chuckles,

“It’s a fulltime job.”

Of course, his wife cannot hear him at her age,

But she knows his burden.

Yet

What drives this devoted man to wait upon his wife so diligently,

Is knowing this is not a job,

EVERLASTING LOVEby Michael Paquet

Flipping through the pages,I think of nothing…Nothing but black and blue linings that crease the night canvas,While wishes roll off the tip of my tongue; crushing the hardwoodfloor.

3, 6, 10... Page surfing...You squeeze my hand... I imagine.And whisper nothing but warm air into my ear.To cool my brain, of nightmares I drowned in the night before.Is this love? I am inclined to believe so.

14, 15, 16... Page surfing…But I know this feeling is only a ghost,Because I only find you inside of a 5.99 magazine.So I write you to life at night, on white paper voids.My drawer is your host, like my hands are the chauffeur.

17, 18, 19… Page surfing…You are only a ghost,Of all my thoughts and the ways I want to feel.Hidden in my drawer,I find you every time.

20, 21, 22... Page surfingSooner than later,Always wanting to be found,There you are on my paper, in my thoughts,Here you are my love,On page 23.

PICTURE PERFECTby William Klassen

36 17

This is not a burden,

But

That this is Love;

Everlasting Love that he gave her

When they married, and

Everlasting Love that he will give her

Until they both slumber.

The couple continues on in their

Everlasting love,

And the world envies them for it.

CHANGE NEVER COMESby Tim Demeuse

The taxman has you by the throat, you can’t catch a break.

Drowning all your cares with cinder blocks at the lake.

If nothing other a strong will it does make,

When your house is caving in.

The police man knows you and he don’t have to knock,

Smashing in your windows and breaking the lock,

Laying on the ground staring up at a glock,

A cold wind blowing in.

And now that Satan’s gone,

Who do we blame it on?

Burn down a bush, and put up a grim façade.

The politicians up there telling you what you want,

But when the problems hit they’re playing golf in Vermont.

Me, I guess I will just stay nonchalant,

Cause you know it’s coming soon.

This place is going to change at the fall of a shell,

Did you think the sins of others would land us in hell?

And if you see old Satan make sure you tell,

Tell him hello for me.

And now that Satan’s gone,

Who do we blame it on?

UNTITLEDBy James LaMalfa

18 35

Obama is my Shepherd;

I shall not want.

He lieth me down in socialist pastures;

He leadeth me past spending waters.

He restoreth my economy;

He leadeth me in paths of democracy for popularity’s sake.

I sit at his table;

He anointeth my head with tax breaks;

My cup runneth over;

He taxeth it not.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow of the

Recession,

I shall fear no Depression,

For Obama art with me;

Thy Hope, and Thy Promises,

They comfort me.

OBAMA IS MY SHEPHERDA Scaffold poem based on Psalm 23, inspired by Darwin Adams

by Michael Paquetand Harry told Mary, who told nearly all of us, who used theinformation sparingly, because Mary believed everything Harrytold her, but most of all she believed Frank and what Franktold Harry.

It was in all the papers, the movie magazines, the songs, butit was through Harry that she hung on every word Frank uttered.She hung on to all of his songs like he’d been singing themJust to her. He was like the Pope to her, but even better,but when Harry turned up dead, Mary couldn’t take it anymore.She spilled everything, no concern for Harry’s reputation. “It,”being dead, was just one more thing that Harry did wrong. Harrylooked up to Frank like a puppy but never followed his advice,but it was the brown shoes that set the whole thing off. Worstof all, Harry’s brown shoes, whenever he walked in the rain,squished. What Frank told the press about the right attire towear after dark, even if a guy turns up dead, especially ifhe turns up dead in the evening, was like the Pope speaking.You never wear brown after six.

When Mary read the headlines “Man Found Dead Wearing Brown Suit,Brown Tie, Brown Shoes” and who had apparently choked on abrownie, she was mortified. When they brought him into themorgue, he had chocolate all over his face. When Mary identi-fied the body, she was horrified to find that not only was hewearing brown after six, but his skin had turned brownish, too,apparently, the coroner told her, from too many chocolatebrownies. Relenting for a moment, she recalled one nice thingabout Harry. He told her she looked like Grace Kelly, and sheliked that, even though she was French and Native American,had dark brown hair, light brownish-olive skin, brown-greeneyes and a small brown birthmark on her left cheek which shereferred to as her beauty mark. She thought of herself asa blond.

After Mary left Harry in the morgue, she moved to Chicago,married a used-car salesman who always wore white short-sleevedshirts, semi-glossy black pants, and a thin black tie.

WHAT FRANK TOLD HARRYby Marilyn Stark

34 19

It’s not what you think it is

Heaven’s Waiting Room.

It isn’t a cloudy, ethereal surrounding

It isn’t bustling with people waiting to get in

It’s simple

It’s real

It exists.

A beautiful brick building with countless windows

None covered, of course, since it’s always sunny

So you can look out and see whatever you want to see.

Want to see a couple in love?

Done.

Want to see a charming Cherry Blossom?

Done.

Anything you want

Anything at all.

There is even a bench for you to sit while you wait.

There is no concept of time, so the wait won’t seem long or short

You will just be waiting

Waiting for the one you love

Your best friend

The person you can’t be without

To arrive and accompany you into

Heaven.

HEAVEN’S WAITING ROOMBy Ashley Wehrli

6 BALL IN THE CORNER POCKETBy Ashley Wehrli

20 33

into a tight line, grips the steering wheel securely in her hands as she reaches

the end of the bridge as we head off to Burger King. My stomach lets out a loud

grumble again as the strong aroma of French fries wafts through the car. I happi-

ly dig in to appease my stomach, saving my sandwich for when I get home.

(Which is where I hope to be heading, but I know better than that.)

“Mom…?” I ask in the nicest way possible, my voice hinting at nothing but

seriousness as I explain to her that I do have homework to do. “Mom, really. Can

we please get Ty his Monster from the gas station and go home? I am tired and I

have work to do yet. Please? Let’s not continue on hunting Dad tonight. I told

you he’s pathetic. Who cares where he is?”

I can see her stop to think for a moment, and just as she is about to turn

onto another side street, her cell phone rings in the cup holder beside us. She

scoops it up quickly. I can plainly hear my brother’s voice on the other end. The

prey has been captured. Apparently our hunt is over.

“When did he get there? … Well, did he say where he was? … Ok, Ok. I’m

around the corner and I’ll be home in two seconds. Bye.” She snaps the phone

shut in a huff and turns to look at me as she turns onto our street. “I’ll kill him,”

She mumbles to herself.

I know she wouldn’t really. She could never commit such an act, even

though the man she married is clearly an ass with no feelings for anyone except

himself. I guess she really does love him and it would be her that cares where

he’s at, at almost one in the morning.

I know it will occur again. It may not be tomorrow, or next week, or even

next month, but it will occur again, and when it does, I know I will be back in the

car, sitting right alongside her. We’ll be checking over every single parking lot,

every alley, and every location where we think he may be, and I will do it

because I love them both. Regardless if we are out getting food at midnight

because we are hungry or we need toothpaste and shampoo for the next morn-

ing and need to run to Wal-Mart, we’ll most likely always make that trip to find

him. Unless of course, he’s already home, fast asleep on the couch. If we only

could be that lucky, to not have to be out, hunting for Dad.

UNTITLEDBy James LaMalfa

32 21

intersection. “Change already, what the hell?” She curses.

Again, I doc the original words to protect the innocence of the reader. She

probably wouldn’t care, but I know for my own sanity that the words that come

out of her mouth are not for the pure and clean minded.

“He’s pathetic. I don’t even see why you bother to look. He obviously

doesn’t want to be found, although he is probably sitting in the most open place

and right in front of us. He usually is,” I tell her, lifting my head to look at her for a

brief moment.

She mutters. I shake my head again and take a deep breath. It’s rather

amazing how you never seem to notice how many bars there are within a 20

mile radius of your own home, until you come to terms with the fact that the per-

son you are out looking for may be at any one of them. What makes you even

more amazed is to find that the person you are looking for isn’t even at one of

his favorite local hangouts. Instead, he is at a friend’s house just down the street

and you constantly miss the unmistakenable truck everytime you drive by it just

because you are not looking for it there.

Things like that tend to really make me mad, especially after spending an

hour of my precious time keeping Mom company while she is on a classic hunt

for Dad. This happens all the time, although it’s only in the last few weeks that it

has it picked up again. I would know, because if he’s not home and has been out

for some time, and I get in that trusty black truck of my moms and we are head-

ed out anywhere, regardless of the hour or plans, we’ll find him at one of his

favorites.

Naturally, this will cause an uproar, which will lead into bitter screaming

matches and heated arguments over who’s pathetic and who needs to pack

what and get the hell out. Overall, these issues always tend to get resolved.

After 23 years of it, it’s kind of hard to leave, regardless of the situation.

However, there are the rare nights, the off occurrences where even after

you have combed the streets and alleys near all the places that the person you

are hunting tends to be found, and then you move on to the not so familiar

places, the prey may still be undiscovered. It’s moments like these that make

you want to pull your hair from your head and go screaming down the street beg-

ging for a way out.

However, the woman sitting in the seat next to me manages to, God bless

her, grin and bear it. I admire her strength and ability to not lose control over the

situation as she rounds another corner and still… no Dad. She purses her lips

Every morning and every evening he sat by the shore and squinted, scanning

the horizon, hoping to detect the telltale tendril of smoke from the stack of the

steamer Napoleon. The daily vigil’s silent intensity had graduated from anxiety to

worry and now verged on despair. Scotie-nobbie-quon, as the Indians called the

steamboat, was long overdue. The little community of Marquette, nothing more

than a few scattered log cabins and a small store, depended on the steamer for

crucial winter supplies to last the harsh impending season. Relentlessly, Lake

Superior angrily crashed her unbuffered storms and snows onto the sandy

shores as frigid weather crowded in. Usually, the last supply steamer had left to

“go below” by November before the great lake iced over and trapped the vessels

in a frozen snare. It was now early December and no provisions for the hundred

or so human souls (and forage for the livestock) had been delivered. Each pass-

ing day without the arrival of the Napoleon wore heavily on the residents.

The young man keeping watch, only sixteen years old, was the de facto

guardian for the women, children, and elderly left in the community. Riley

Crawford, not yet fleshed out into manhood, felt the weight of the world pressing

down on his slender shoulders. Despairing of waiting, the able-bodied townsmen

had formed a party to attempt an overland expedition through the dense wood-

land of Upper Michigan’s behemoth peninsula to reach Sand Point on Lake

Michigan’s Bay de Noc.

The great lake to great lake journey was a dangerous proposition even dur-

ing the summer months; but it was particularly daring to taunt fate against an

encroaching winter. Two Chippewa Indians agreed to guide the snowshoe-clad

party through the entanglement of swamp, wind-falls, and an unbroken primeval

forest of cedar, pine, birch, and maple. In good weather the groping excursion

would take seven days. Once on the Bay de Noc, the party would travel along

the iced shoreline to Green Bay and then, if necessary, a stage ran south from

that town to Fond du Lac. Precious provisions from the town’s scant commissary

would be doled out to the men.

Before setting off, the young man’s father had delegated him to look after

the townspeople left behind. “You’re in charge now, Riley,” he said in a level

voice. “It’s up to you to keep spirits high. Do your best to protect and defend

them.” Riley gulped, and then vowed to do his best. Leaving the young man with

a gun and a Bible, they promised to return as quickly as possible.

That was over two weeks ago and prospects were becoming progressively

RELIEVEDby Darwin Adams

22 31

HUNGER-DRIVEN DADby Nellie Fertato

The gentle luminosity of the dashboard lights draws my attention to the clock.

The bright, neon digits clearly show that it is nearing midnight. My stomach gives

out a mighty lurch and then proceeds to growl loudly. I glance over at the clock

again. No change there. How irritating.

I should have known how stupid it would be to ask her to drive out to get

food at this hour, but I was hungry and the process of making food was too

tedious for me when I had so much to get done before classes the next day.

Then again, the idea of actually making food at any time seems too tedious. I

guess I just have very little patience. Not to mention she said she was hungry

too, and having just got home from work, she didn’t want to cook. I admire that in

her.

I am so tired, yet I somehow manage to keep my eyelids from drooping as I

lean my head against the cool glass of the car window. I watch with very little

interest as the city streets cast ghostly shadows across the sidewalks and roads.

The snow piles that grace the curbs, the ones that interfere with actually pulling

into a store parking lot without it looking like you’re intoxicated, are finally dwin-

dling down to small mounds instead of the classic mountains that they once

were. As for those banks making it seem like you are driving drunk, I know

someone who got pulled over for bumping the curb because the officer said it

looked like he was driving drunk, but it just turned out that he had no choice but

to drive like that, as the mountainous banks were so high, he had to run over

them.

For the record, he was drinking before he got into his vehicle, but I digress.

As I try to ignore my grumbling stomach, I glance over at the woman in the seat

next to me. Her hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that it seems like they

have paled from lack of circulation, but then I realize that it’s just the reflection of

the streetlights that make that image. I sigh softly, but loud enough for her to

hear. “I know, I know. He just makes me so damn mad.”

She speaks carefully, even though I know how angry she really is. The

words that tumble from her mouth are not inappropriate, but they are easy

enough to hide with pretty alternatives and I am grateful for that. She lets out

another series of swear words and other various phrases of brilliant colors and

shades and I just shake my head. She taps her fingers on the dash as she waits

with the patience of a two year old as the red light beams down at her from the

bleak. An inventory was made of the dwindling supplies and alternatives were

considered. They decided to stop feeding the horses, oxen, and the town’s lone

cow. Coarse meal meant for the animals would be rationed for human consump-

tion. As the loyal beasts weakened, they would be slaughtered and eaten.

Wild game would have to supplement the meager commissary. Marten, fish-

er, fox, muskrat, beaver, and otter, prized for their fur, would now be sought for

their meat. Greatly mismatched against the predatory acumen of nocturnal bob-

cats, lynx, and wolves, Riley competed for northern hares during the day.

Partridge, grouse, and crossbills not claimed by preying owls, ravens, and

eagles might be candidates considering Riley’s limited hunting skills.

Originally named Worchester, the hamlet of Marquette was established in

1849 as a prospecting and processing center for newly discovered copper

deposits and iron mines. Mining was the sole economic interest and consequent-

ly slight attention was given to agricultural or subsistence development. Now,

only two years later, when their lifeline to the outside world was disrupted, the

idle steam boiler and smoldered-out copper kilns seemed to mock them in mirth-

ful silence.

As Riley dwelled on the town’s plight while scanning the horizon, his mind

ran off in oblique tangents. Marquette’s reclusive neighbors, the indigenous

nomadic Indians, were rarely seen and an aura of mystery veiled them. “What

would I do if they appeared?” he fretted. Wandering parties of Chippewa and

Sioux had been each other’s mortal enemies for over a century. Canadian trap-

pers had spun tales of ambush and slaughter between the competing tribes. No

one, however, could recollect any atrocities committed on the new American set-

tlers.

That didn’t stop one old trapper from spinning yarns about the ferocity of the

tribes he traded with. “Their usual practice is to creep stealthily on the enemy’s

village or hunting encampment, and wait till just after dawn,” the leather-skinned

pioneer claimed. “Then, at the moment the sleepers in the lodges are rising, the

ambushers stoop and level their pieces about two feet from the ground.” The

animated old man’s gravelly voice rose to a crescendo. “And then they slaughter

their enemies indiscriminately!” Sensing a captive audience, the trapper finished

off the gruesome tale. “If thy find one of the enemy lodges undefended, they

murder all within,” he growled, “and rip the scalps off their skulls. In the minds of

the savages, this is exquisite vengeance.”

Riley wondered if, like a prowling panther, they could sense vulnerability

and gravitate to Marquette. “Snap out of it, Riley!” he ordered himself. “Stop

30 23

60 SECONDS OR LESSby Ashley Wehrli

Silence

The calm before the storm

Then…

Ringing

Starts out dull and soft

Gradually gaining speed

Increasing in volume

Contrasts of colors fade

Starting to lose sight altogether

Heart starts to pound loud enough to hear

Until all at once-

Blinding White and

Deafening Ring.

Ten Seconds…

Twenty-five Seconds…

Forty-five Seconds…

Sixty Seconds…

Heart starts to slow to a controllable pace

Sight starts to come back

Contrasts of colors define

The white starts to fade away

Ringing decreases

Gradually losing speed

Until it become dull and soft

Finally, the storm has passed

Silence

thinking up dangers. You’ve got enough real problems to worry about.”

Other explorers found the reclusive Indians an enigma. Presenting a stoic

front, they rarely gave glimpses of their true intentions. Emotions were only pub-

licly displayed during mating rituals. When young Chippewa braves were in an

amorous state, they painted themselves “bewitchingly” and offered presents to

the parents of the intended. If accepted, arrangements were consummated for

marriage. Riley wondered where he would begin to deal with such strange peo-

ple should they appear before the relief party returned. But it really didn’t matter

now. No one had seen any trace of them since summer.

At dawn on December 15th, Riley, as a matter of matutinal habit, walked to

the shore to scan the waters. Through the morning fog he thought he spotted a

faint column of smoke! Fixated on the speck far off through the haze, he

watched it long and anxiously. His heartbeat quickened but his mind urged dis-

cretion. “Don’t raise the hopes of the town only to dash them when the haze lifts,

Riley,” his conscience advised. He turned and walked back to the house for a

meager breakfast his mother was preparing. He couldn’t eat it. Excusing himself,

he returned to the shore. A hard, studied gaze convinced him. It was the

Napoleon! He ran back to announce the good news to the town.

The townspeople all congregated on the shore to verify the sighting.

Paroxysms of joy punctuated the chill air as spontaneous celebration wiped

away the gloom evident only minutes before. One resident recalled the stranded

people “shouted and swung their remnants of hats, women tore off and waved

aprons, and the little bare feet of children danced on the cold shore.”

An old man who lost one horse from his team to starvation just the day

before now had his spirits buoyed. “Now, if old Bill is not dead, I can save him,”

he sobbed through tears of joy. In the distance, a staccato horn aboard the

Napoleon blasted a welcomed acknowledgement.

The adulating crowd lingered on the shore to witness every advancing

movement of the rescue ship. Greeted with a cacophony of tumultuous shouts

and echoing cheers, the crew docked the steamer and disembarked. A resident

remembered years later, “No wonder that men, women, and children gathered

on the shores to watch the steamer push its way through the ice up to the piers;

[it was] the luxury of fresh eggs, fresh meat and vegetables, medicines and

tobacco.” In addition, warm shoes and clothing, tools, and animal forage were

distributed.

After a few days, the tardy steamer debarked hoping to clear the sheets of

ice forming up to fifty miles from the shore. Though greatly relieved, Riley still

24 29

to the bathroom to set the pansy

in the center of the bathtub

where we stand barefooted.

It’s the most unexpected place

I hadn’t thought of before

and I believe always

in the spontaneous offerings

of Kerouac and plums

and how the rain makes the earth feel

and all because I ate plums

outside sitting on a chair.

A gentle caress, across the small of my back

Causes tingles to flow from my head to my feet

When you’re not by my side, your spirit is close

The thought of your love brings me heat

Your love saved me from the fiery pits of hell

My heart knows you have no lies

The blissful comfort of your gentle embrace

Is heightened by your gorgeous eyes

From the past my heart has been scarred

But our future looks to be sublime

Floating on a sea of fluffy white clouds

Like Narnia the thing that slows is time

My white picket fence I have yearned for 3since I was young

Through you I have it at last

I will have peace and serenity

When my heart beats fast

WHEN MY HEART BEATS FASTModeled after When I Close My Eyes by Deana

By T.J. Radey

worried. His father and the relief party had not returned yet. To ease the conster-

nation, Riley continued to set traps and visited them each day. New Year’s Day

was no exception from the routine. The day was mild and pleasant and the traps

yielded a couple hares. Riley returned home with his quarry and placed them on

the table. His mother would prepare them for the holiday meal.

Suddenly the cabin door burst open and there before the startled family was

“a group of laughing Indians of all ages, from the brave old Chief Mau-je-ki-jik,

and his squaw, to all the little niches and all the members of his tribe he could

muster.” Bedecked in elaborately embroidered beads and porcupine quills, the

Chief and his squaw had donned their best broadcloth and leggings.

Riley’s heart sank. Tensing up, he tried to marshal his wits to respond to the

surprise. Stepping forward, he assumed a defensive stance between his mother

and the Indians. Extremely frightened, the younger siblings had scattered to the

cabin’s only other room to peer at the proceedings through a crack in the logs.

Riley had no chance to react. The Chief quickly brushed by him, grabbed

his mother and kissed her! All the others in his entourage followed the example.

Riley, dumbfounded into inaction, watched in astonishment. His mother, recoup-

ing from the shock, regained some aplomb.

A final straggler, a young Indian brave with a painted face to indicate he was

in love, strode forward and was presented to Mrs. Crawford. Red lines were

applied to his chest and pointed to his heart. He was not much older than Riley.

“His long black hair was braided and hung down the sides of his face, and braid-

ed in with it were small brass thimbles strung on a soiled pink ribbon,” she

recalled. The Chief was presenting his son to Mrs. Crawford for marriage.

Riley stepped forward and objected. His mother was spoken for; her mate

was only away on a “great hunt” and expected back shortly. The affable Indians

seemed satisfied with the explanation. Fortunately, the Crawfords were able to

fix a spread of food adequate to feed the unexpected visitors. After an exchange

of gifts, they all went away satisfied.

Watching the laughing Indians leave, Riley closed the door and sighed in

palpable relief. His mother hugged him around the shoulders and said how brave

he had been. Riley, heart pounding through his shirt, smiled, hoping the relief

party would come back soon to relieve him of his duties.

28 25

It was a bright Tuesday afternoon and sunlight poured in my window as I happily

played with my kitchen set. It was a marvelous piece of furniture no child should

have to do without. Vibrant blues, yellows, oranges, and reds showed off its

functionality. You could boil some tube-like noodles for Mac ‘n Cheese on one of

four coily burners while baking a chocolate cake in the tiny oven for your doll’s

birthday party all at the same time. A young girl like myself could slave away for

hours to create such delicacies.

Today’s special was a hamburger with fries served with a nice cool glass of pink

lemonade. Content in my cooking zone, I hardly noticed Mom come into my

room. I continued frying the beef patty, listening to the crisp sizzle as I pressed

the meat into the yellow pan, as Mom sat down on the other side of my kitchen.

I assumed she was ready to pick up her order, and I panicked because it wasn’t

quite ready. But when I looked up and under the short roof to give her the news,

her countenance revealed something other than patient waiting. Her face had a

look of motherly anger. When you see this expression you know you did some-

thing wrong and you are afraid of what’s to come, but you also know that Mom

still loves you and is not about to completely destroy you. That was the only

comfort I could hold on to.

Forgetting about her beef patty that was probably scalded by now, I lowered my

eyes to the floor. She asked me why I had told Daddy to shut up, but all I could

do was give my tense shoulders a defeated shrug and say, “I don’t know.” After

a dramatic pause, she began explaining to me why that’s a naughty thing to say

and that those words are not to be said in this house or outside it. As she talked,

I lowered myself behind the oven and began to make mocking faces at her,

absolutely sure she had no clue of my secret defiance. But what I learned that

sunny afternoon behind my kitchen set was that mothers don’t need to see the

bad attitude to know that it’s there.

KITCHEN SET LESSONby Stephanie Thompson

First one, it is so juicy

we drain the almost sonorous

dribbling flesh, so ripe

with expectation.

I need another he tells me

and we plunge our weapons of teeth

into this purple world

held within our fingers and thumbs.

“Man, this is redolent with native secrets,” he says.

So plump, the skin like royalty,

smoothed and taut,

zippers open like cut cloth

before our mouths can press the flesh,

slips from our lips

drips deep red

veining down our fingers

into cupped palms, a pool

of ancient secretions.

How dazzled I was when I

first read your words I tell him.

Like this palpable pulp

they sing a hymn in my skin.

We watch a white butterfly flutter

like curtains in the wind

over a tired pansy,

the round eyes on its wings circle

and seem to study us

with the ennui of a target board.

“I’m gone on plums,” he tells me

and plucks the lone flower,

its yellow and brown face spent

from summer heat,

sends it into a green Tupperware tumbler.

I follow him into the house

EATING PLUMS OUTSIDE WHILE SITTING ON A CHAIR When Kerouac Saunters Over Barefoot Through the Grass

by Marilyn Stark

26 27

Deep down inside, I knew something was wrong. Something was making me

rather unhappy. It wasn’t my choice in a mate. It wasn’t my choice for a career

path. It wasn’t my family life. On closer examination, I came to realize it was the

diet I had inherited. The foods I was raised on and their manner of preparation

continued on into my adult life changing only in minor ways. I began incorporat-

ing a few fresh foods that I came to recognize I had secretly longed for. I was a

vegetarian trapped in a conventional omnivore’s lifestyle, though I wouldn’t fully

recognize it yet. It was my first time out on my own, living in a vaulted ceiling stu-

dio apartment with windows to match the immensity of the walls. The sun com-

ing into my life was abundant and the air was refreshing.

Somewhat detrimental to the evolution of my concept of a meal was my

cousin’s attempt at vegetarianism. I imagine it was a success on the grounds of

her accomplishing her choice of consumption desires, but to the older generation

in the family she was deemed a black sheep, an outcast, if you will. She had

stepped out of the boundaries held by a small town family whose only gathering

times were centered around the dining table and who also held strict boundaries

for what sort of lifestyle would be recognized and tolerated by the group. A vege-

tarian life style was clearly unacceptable.

Afraid to join the ranks of the chided and ridiculed, I shied away from this

idea, though it was a concept that was brewing within me. At the time I was

working in a deli and was constantly handling meat. I stunk of it in the evenings

and had to wash the smell of it out of my hair. This was to be the year I gave up

chicken and pork (except for the occasional piece of burnt bacon which eventu-

ally developed into a weakness for proscuitto).

It wasn’t until I moved away a year later that I felt able to become a full ovo-

lacto vegetarian (still eating eggs and dairy). I was twenty years old and was liv-

ing on tourist-thriving Mackinac Island. It was an exciting time in my life, my first

real adventure away from all that was familiar.I was living in dormitory- style

housing and was sharing one kitchen with twelve other women. Eating in was

VEGETARIAN EVOLUTIONby Adria Kaufman

not the best option as my food stock seemed to mysteriously diminish whenever

I was not around (which was a lot). The general distrust among the housemates,

combined with my total lack of interest in cooking, was the perfect recipe for the

makings of a junk food vegetarian. It lasted for only a year. I moved back to my

hometown and began my old fanfare of turkey and seafood coupled with salads

and veggie platters. Three years later, I became a mom, and finally, a cook.

I became a domestic diva, keeping house (by this time in Madison,

Wisconsin), raising a brilliant daughter, and experimenting with my stove for the

first time in my life. I had a few staple vegetarian dishes, but had hit my new

comfort plateau. I did, however, have the influence of our friend and neighbor,

the ever vivacious, Miss Christina who was a devout vegetarian. I was success-

ful at keeping a pork and chicken free diet for the next five years while we moved

to the suburbs of Detroit and then back again to our hometown. Something hap-

pened to me while living in Lower Michigan though. I had found my passion in

terms of career paths. It was exciting and liberating. I was connecting with

myself and my own truth like never before, breaking through my own boundaries

of whom I felt it was acceptable for me to be. I was afraid of moving back home

and slipping back into the superficial contrivances of living very much inside the

box. That didn’t happen.

Instead, I went back to school to follow that newly discovered passion.

Somewhere between childcare and homework, an old Vegetarian Times maga-

zine fell into my hands and onto my kitchen counter. I quickly became fascinated

with cooking exciting vegetarian dishes that I had never been exposed to as a

non-cooking, junk food vegetarian. My life had evolved to the exact point where I

could enjoy this new delectable discovery to the fullest. I have now transformed

my refrigerator, my kitchen, and my life. There is a certain peace and wholeness

in this evolution coming almost full circle. The next step is my coming out vege-

tarian to my family! And if all goes well, I’ll be sharing some fantastic dishes at

the next table gathering!